Legacies of Blood
by Magi Silverwolf
Summary: Blood is a powerful substance. So many things get passed by blood, either by heritage or by mixing blood in a body. It was blood which made the Five what they were-what they are. It was a blood sacrifice which many claimed to protect Harry Potter from the Killing Curse. The legacy always comes back to the blood in their veins.
1. Brilliance

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warning:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

 **Crossover Information:** This story is a crossover of the _Harry Potter_ series by J.K. Rowling and the television show _Sanctuary_. There is minor crossover with the BBC show _Sherlock_ which is based upon the _Sherlock Holmes_ stories by Arthur Conan Doyle, but nothing plot-relevant at this time, just premise-relevant.

-= LP =-

Legacies of Blood

Part 01: Brilliance

-= LP =-

"Nothing is more deceptive than an obvious fact."

– Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

-= LP =-

Hermione Granger had grown up knowing that she was _special_ in a way that set her aside from her peers. Aside from the fact that she had three parents instead of everyone else's two, she saw things. Actually, it was more than simply seeing things. It would be better to say that she _noticed_ things because it was always more than what she saw. It was smells and sounds and the feel of things. Her Mummy would tell her stories of a long-ago grandfather who could do the same and who had the same problems that Hermione had sometimes. He was a brilliant man, a genius ahead of his time, but just like Hermione, he couldn't stop learning. The brief periods of _not doing something_ always spurned him onward to some new experiment or endeavor, even if it was dangerous and ill-thought out, like Hermione's attempt to recreate Daedalus' wings when she was six, never mind that somehow Hermione had bounced after jumping off the roof of their house.

As if that was not enough of a difference, Hermione learned much faster than other children her age. Her Mama said that Hermione was an autodidact with eidetic recall. Daddy called her _brilliant_ , _just like Mummy_. Mummy said that genius ran in their blood. In the end, it meant that Hermione had to go to a special school for children like her. Even there, she outstripped her peers. Hermione wasn't supposed to know about the discussions that her parents had every year about pulling her from the school and just hiring tutors, but she did. Every time, they ended up deciding that Hermione needed to be with other children, even if she didn't seem to get along with them much. Attending the school did give her the opportunity to observe other children and applying her gleamed knowledge to her interactions with her cousins did _help_ even if they still seemed like alien creatures to Hermione.

Hermione understood that her family was just as _special_ as she was. It had been explained to her very early on that having two mothers and a father at the same time was unusual, even in the circles in which her father's family traveled, thanks to Grammy's holding of their family seat. Aristocrats were even weirder than other children. Mama's family was strange as well, not that Hermione had ever met any of them. They had disowned Mama not long after she had decided to stay with Mummy after they left university. Mama was the normal one, which has always confused Hermione, because Mama was so very different than everyone else that Hermione had ever met—so much _more_ than anyone else, it seemed at times. The only member of Mummy's family that Hermione had ever met was Uncle John. Uncle John went to uni with Daddy and they served together, but Uncle John didn't leave when Daddy did. Mama said he was an adrenaline junkie, but Hermione knew that he had the same thirst she had when things got _boring_ and the constantly changing situations he found in the service fed his need.

Hermione also understood that her _specialness_ also made her _different_. She was clever enough to note that even the other genii who went to her school were able to relate to each other. She noted the same among the other children of aristocrats and her cousins (despite the fact that there was so _many_ of them in only one household). While Mama was simply _brilliant_ , there was still a lot of things which Hermione could do which Emmy Granger could not, such as making things move on their own or fix themselves when there were not even big enough pieces to glue back together. It did not escape Hermione's notice that her family, especially her parents, went out of their way to keep the seemingly-magical abilities secret. Even before she understood the _why_ , she had understood that this was something which needed to be done.

She was nine when she noticed that there was someone watching her as she played in the park. It was not obvious to anyone else. In fact, if Hermione had been a more _normal_ child, she may not have noticed him at all. It was not always the same person, though they all had the same look to them, as if they had all come from the same _organization_. They didn't stand out like the bumblers who popped into existence the one time that she made the school bully swell up by telling him he was full of shit (thankfully, they _had_ corrected Hermione's unintentional use of magic as the boy had been swelling with literal fecal matter and that would have been just nasty). These new watchers looked almost normal. In many respects, they _were_ normal, except Hermione always sensed something off about them, beyond the fact that they seemed abnormally intent on observer _her_.

It was not until her normal watcher was joined by _him_ , that Hermione began to understand. He looked so much like he had in the tin-plates they had of him. There were also parts of him that Hermione could see echoed in Mummy and Uncle John. This new person, despite how impossible it seemed, had to be James Watson. He didn't look any older than her parents, but that fact did not dissuade Hermione that he had to be her great-grandfather.

With the imperial nature of brilliant children, Hermione immediately approached him where he sat beside the other man on a bench. While the watcher squirmed in his seat nervously, the two Watsons observed each other, taking in little details from each other and communicating in the same. They could not go into depth—there really was no way to talk about what the Sanctuary Network was or how Hermione _knew_ that there was magic in the world. What they could tell each other was that for the first time in a very long time, neither of them were alone; finally, there was another who was like them. There was another who understood the driving need to _know_ and how hard it could be when the world seemed to be _too_ much. The moment ended when Hermione threw her arms around James' neck and hugged with all her considerable worth. It took a moment for James to react—it had been so long since he had been around a child, not since his own children were young—but eventually he returned her embrace.

"Grandfather," Hermione whispered into his ear and to James, she sounded so much like his dearly-missed Mary that he had to choke back a sob. The girl tucked her forehead against his neck as she pressed closer. When she repeated the appellative, she sounded more like Helen, and that steadied his emotions more than anything. While Mary had long since passed on from this world, Helen was still alive, doubly so, and the memory of his fellow Sanctuary Head held less pain.

"Oh, my child," James replied, holding her even tighter, "oh, my dear _brilliant_ child." He glanced up then to see a small group headed his way. His quick eye noted the similarities they bore to the surveillance photographs in the file that his assistant had given him when making his report. He smiled. Maybe it was time to reconnect with his family, even if only the youngest showed any sign of his abnormal blood. Helen was not the only one suffering from loneliness, after all.

-= LP =-

Harry Potter knew from an early age that he was _different_ from his family and the other denizens of Little Whinging. He was so different that he was _abnormal,_ a true _freak_. Out of the goodness of their hearts, his family took him in when he was left on their doorstep after his parents' death. Aunt Petunia refused to speak about what exactly happened to them, but Harry got the impression that whatever had happened was because of _him_. The only things Harry knew for sure about how he came to reside at Number Four Privet Drive was that his parents had died, _someone_ connected to them had left him _literally_ on the Dursleys' doorstep, and that the Dursleys were all the family he had left.

Living with the Dursleys was unpleasant. Harry knew that he shouldn't have the memory that he does and more than once he wished he could be just like the other children who couldn't remember things for longer than a few days _at best_. It was horrible to be able to remember every nasty thing his family said about and to him and every single time he had been punished. It was even worse to remember what he had before being brought to them, even if those memories were fuzzy like looking through a haze. (The earliest memories of the Dursleys had a similar haze; Harry learned later that this was due to the difference in how the brain creates memories as it develops.)

Whereas the Dursleys were as pleasant as a rash and as intelligent as Aunt Marge's beloved bulldogs, his family from _before_ was filled with laughter and light. Paddy would change into a large dog and let Harry tug on his ears and tail while Moony would read to him whatever book he had with him at the time and was always warm and smelled like chocolate. Daddy liked to toss him into air before catching him and tickling him. Petey was quieter, but he liked to play with the sorter and the puzzles with Harry, which none of the other men were keen to do.

He loved all of them, but most of all, he loved Mummy. Mummy was the most beautiful woman there could ever be—much, _much_ prettier than Aunt Petunia. She had hair like fire, all reds, oranges, and golds—and her eyes were exactly like Harry's, dark emerald. He could remember her singing to him in a strange language and the wash of her magic as she soothed him to sleep, tucking him in with a comfort spell so that he would never be too hot or too cold. He could remember her waving her wand to do chores or to make the shadows dance like marionettes for his entertainment. She would sweep him into her arms and they would dance to the music which she kept playing at all times—everything from Persian to Celtic to rock and roll. The Marauders were great, but Mummy was _brilliant_ , and if there was one specific thing which Privet Drive lacked, it was _brilliance_.

Harry knew that he was _different_ , but he was never more thankful for it than when Aunt Petunia was forced to let him go to school with Dudley. The other children were better than Dudley when it came to some things (being able to count to twenty with their shoes on, for one thing), but they were still _boring_. The teacher was almost worse, with her sickly sweet attitude that she thought fooled people into thinking that she just had a love of peppermint tea rather than peppermint schnapps. Harry spent most of his free time in the Reading Nook looking for something more entertaining than _See Spot Run_ while his cousin bonded with a weasely-looking character who shared Dudley's misfortune when it came to names. As if Polkiss was not a bad enough name, this boy had been named _Piers_ of all things. Alternative form of _Peter_ or not, it sounded like a dock. Some people just should not be allowed to name their children because they clearly didn't think before doing so.

When the time for recess came, the teacher rounded up her charges and released them upon the unsuspecting playground. Harry watched his classmates tearing across the asphalt to the play equipment or the containers of balls with a bored expression. Maybe he could goad Dudley into chasing him again? The beachball had at least one new ally—perhaps even three if those other two malcontents were willing to join the future terrorists of Surrey brigade. Dudley was more than stupid enough to think that the strength of numbers would be enough to overpower Harry. Harry _was_ in the mood for a hunting game, even if both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had warned him about _funny business_ at school. Harry sighed as he decided that the five minutes of fun probably was not worth the days of pain and weeks of hunger that would result from the punishments he would receive for playing rough with his cousin. Instead, the tiny boy sneaked back into the building to explore.

An hour later, the teachers found him in the back section of the library. He had found the room early on in his exploration and had become engrossed in the number of books which were available. Unlike the tiny classroom library which had held only beginner books, the school library had books for all primary grades in both fiction and nonfiction forms. Harry had found several to interest him along with finding a reading nook with beanbags and squishy chairs. Engrossed in his reading, he had failed to note the time passing until a harried sectary had called out to that she had found him.

Thankfully, his excursion (and the resulting interrogation as to its cause) had brought to light the fact that Harry was _different_ than other children his age. The school counselor had taken Harry into his office before proceeding to ask a lot of questions on varying topics. There were questions about everything that Harry had ever read and many subjects which Harry had just begun to learn about thanks to Aunt Petunia having recently bought the educational books for Dudley (who had just sent them to his spare bedroom before demanding a new toy robot). That conversation had turned into one about his life with the Dursleys which was strange because no one had really cared before about why he had so many chores or wore his cousin's old clothes despite them hanging off his much smaller body.

After the school counselor had finished asking his questions, he took Harry to the school nurse who proceeded to poke, prod, and measure him. It was thoroughly unpleasant and at points, Harry was tempted to bite the infuriating woman who kept tisking over his bony frame. Biting fell under _funny business_ , however, and Harry knew that his aunt and uncle would not be any more pleased with him biting the school nurse than they would be if he tricked Dudley into a fight. When a county-worker arrived, Harry politely answered all her questions as well. It was just as unpleasant as the nurse's tests as the woman wanted to know all about his chores and any punishments that he earned. Harry wished that he was back in the counselor's stuffy office. At least _his_ questions were interesting.

It was not long after the arrival of the caseworker with her dozens of questions about the Dursleys that Harry began to suspect something was off about his day. The adults were acting peculiar, almost like it was important how he was treated. Harry already knew that he was not treated like other children his age was, but he had already gathered that his different treatment was because _he_ was _different_. Other children—even the adults—couldn't do the things he could and disregarding the Dursley preference for violence of any variety, most people did not respond to things with the desire to rip into flesh. Yes, Harry had a lot more rules than Dudley did, with more negative consequences to match, but Aunt Petunia made it perfectly clear that this difference was necessary because of Harry's freakishness. Did these people not realize this?

Unfortunately, every attempt Harry made to correct this lapse was met with increasing irritation from the caseworker. On the other hand, she sent him back to the school counselor. When the counselor seemed to be having similar difficulties understanding what Harry was trying to explain, Harry gave up and proceeded to read through the man's small bookshelf. The counselor made a few more attempts to continue the caseworker's discussion but for the most part he just watched as Harry read his books on psychology with the help of the dictionary from the bottommost shelf. The rest of the afternoon was spent in blessed near-silence.

The return of the caseworker at dismissal annoyed Harry even more than the interrogation did. Though watching Aunt Petunia stammer through answering a similar set of questions amused him until he realized that she was making it seem like he was a liar. If his punishments and workload was necessary because of his freakishness, then it was acceptable and Aunt Petunia had no reason to lie about it all. Why wasn't she explaining to the nosy caseworker about his freakishness? It was in that moment when Harry realized that there was a reason the adults had reacted the way they had—and just as quickly, the pain of it set in.

The Dursleys weren't doing what they did because of necessity like they had always told him. They were doing it because it was what they wanted to do. Which meant that what the caseworker and the counselor had tried to explain had to be true—that everyone deserved to have a bedroom and food and playtime and that no one should be beaten for asking questions or fighting back or needing to go to the bathroom or being smart. Harry stood beside the counselor, a man who he had ignored for most of the afternoon in irritation, and watched as the woman who raised him talked with the caseworker at a frantic pace about how he always lied and exaggerated and had an active imagination. He almost whimpered when he noticed that the caseworker's hard face had begun to lose some of its suspicious hardness because that meant that the lies were being believed.

He hugged himself like he did whenever he woke up in the middle of the night from a dream about the red-haired lady. It hurt to think about everything now that he knew it shouldn't be this way. It hurt to breathe and his eyes stung in a way that would earn him a smack because _freaks_ weren't allowed to cry—but was he really a _freak_ even? That is what the Dursleys—Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Marge—always called him to justify everything they did and said to him. All of his rules were based upon the fact that he was a freak. If he wasn't a freak, did the rules still apply?

The pain gave way to panic as the bottom fell out of his world. The air began to crackle around him and his hair raised up like the hackles of a dog. The panic spiked even higher because this was another of his freakish abilities and those weren't supposed to happen anywhere but especially not where _others could see_. The panic just made static in the air even worse. As arcs of purplish-blue electricity jumped from his tiny frame to strike at the ground, the crowd around them dove and ran away. Harry tried to focus on pulling the energy back inside of him. That was what he had to do whenever he had gotten upset at home, but with this new kind of energy, it wasn't working. He couldn't even breathe anymore despite his frequent pants for air and the lightning was still getting worse. Oh, God, what if he exploded? Would it be like that time Dudley had insisted that Harry microwave a sausage or would it be more like when a sauce boiled too quickly?

With cracks like the sound Uncle Vernon always made with his belt before he started one of Harry's beatings, several people suddenly appeared in the front yard of Alfred Bushman Elementary. Harry was only barely aware of them. They immediately froze the running crowd mid-stride before moving to contain the magical disturbance which had set off their alarms. To the agents of the Accidental Magic Reversal squad, this was just a standard incident of a muggleborn's magic reacting to the stress of a first day of school. It was so common that there was a rumor going around that muggleborns and their parents were going to be told about magic as soon as the Register noted them so that the muggleborns could be given rudimentary training to control themselves like the magically-raised children were. It was an old rumor, though, so no one put much stock into it.

Having dealt with the crowd, the squad moved on to the kid who was causing the problem. They surrounded the boy with shields designed to contain magic to a specific area. Knowing better than to cast a spell into a magical field generated by a panicking child, they instead sent in the person whose turn it was on the rotation. A quick _stupefy_ from a wand against the neck or other area of exposed skin and the kid would sleep long enough for them to alter the memories of the muggles. Then they would wake the kid and alter his memories. Some thought it wasn't fair, but it was what was needed to maintain the Statute of Secrecy. It was above their paygrade to question well-established policy.

They weren't expecting the Chief Warlock to show up when they were halfway through with the muggles. They also were not expecting to find themselves explaining why the kid was watching them work. The latter was because the kid should still be knocked out by the spell. All five members of the squad trembled as the trademark twinkle faded from the eyes of Albus Dumbledore as they stammered their answers to his questions. All the while, the boy watched them, as if mentally recording every action they made. It was finally decided that Dumbledore himself would be the one to alter the kid's memory.

"I'm sorry, my dear boy," Dumbledore told Harry as he raised his wand to aim the spell, "but certain things must stay the way they currently are. Maybe someday you will understand that this is for the Greater Good. _Oblivate_!"


	2. Sanctuaries

**Warning:** Violent thoughts for violent deeds. The instincts of a creature (even a sapient one) that is prone to both territorial displays and bloodlust are not _nice_ things.

 **Author's Note(s):** As fans of _Sanctuary_ may note, certain scientific terms are going to be different. This is because, despite the character backstories, the show did get a few ( _a lot_ ) science things wrong—most of it in the terms and can't be handwaved as old age. Science Fiction has certain, um, not quite _tropes_ because it's not a writer/reader communication so much as a meta thing along the lines of arguments that people always get into about it because of the nature of the genre. The _"But science doesn't work like that!"_ argument is one of those things.

 **҉** Also, this story references events which occur in another of my stories, _On Loving a Dove_. While reading this story is not necessary in order to understand this chapter or even this story, one's enjoyment of Nikola's character and journey would be improved, I feel, by reading it. Anything plot necessary I am trying to work into the narrative here.

-= LP =-

Legacies of Blood

Part 02: Sanctuaries

-= LP =-

"There is no instinct like that of the heart." – Lord Byron

-= LP =-

If there was one thing that Nikola was good at, it was managing boredom. Thankfully, he was Nikola Tesla and he excelled at more than one thing. For the past forty years he had been forced to publish his work under other names—having been forced to abandon his birth name outside of very selective circles. He tried not to think about the final events which had led him to conceding to Helen and James' increasingly annoyed demands to let them help him, but like a sore tooth, he had to poke at it. It had been a brilliant plan, but the problem with brilliant plans was that they either worked out magnificently or they blew up magnificently. World peace by ultimate destructive tool turned out to be more along the lines of the latter than the former and as 1942 was ending, he had found himself being hunted by pretty much everyone. Nikola had been determined to deal with it on his own—he was Nikola Tesla and he was capable of anything, after all.

Then he had met _her_. For eleven days he had held something far more precious than anything in the entire world. As much as he had cherished her easy acceptance and affection, the fact that she had been another of his kind—another _Vampirius sanguine_ —was sometimes what haunted him the most. It had guided much of his work in the forty years he had hidden away from the world—as if recreating the vampire race would somehow make up for the fact that he could not do it through biological reproduction. In between stints in the lab, he searched out the broken remains of a once mighty empire, fueled by a bitter hope that where there had been one, there could be others.

Through it all, he tried to stay far away from his fellow Five and the Sanctuary, now a global network of facilities. He kept tabs on them—James was not the only one with contacts who liked hiding in shadows, and failing that, he had picked up a few tricks concerning sneaking about where he wasn't supposed to be and leaving nifty little devices behind as a parting gift. Nigel was a very good teacher in that regard. The Sanctuaries had been his practice run of the devices before he infiltrated his true targets.

Nikola had known about Nigel's death before the others. That had been another of his failures. Nigel had gotten just enough of preternatural healing from the Source Blood that he didn't age. By the time the cancer had advanced enough for the symptoms to become noticeable, it had been far beyond conventional medicine of 1961. Nikola hadn't given up trying to help until the decision was taken out of his hands. He was Nikola Tesla and he did the impossible (he could still hear the echo of _her_ laughter at the egotistical line, already affectionate even minutes after meeting him), but it hadn't been enough, not enough to save his friend. Nigel had been the only one of the Five to whom he hadn't been more annoyance than friend. He had contacted James so that the secret world they were a part of would remain safely hidden, but had not attended the service, not willing to face the other's suspicions about his motives or to risk bringing his _watchers'_ attention to the closeness he shared with the Sanctuary Global Network heads. James had given him a look full of sympathetic knowledge, but as the man said nothing, Nikola could safely ignore it and its implications.

Nikola nearly laughed himself sick when little Ashley was born in June 1963. Not at the emotionally-charged congress Helen and John had engaged in her lab of all stereotypical places—oh, no, nothing about that had been unexpected; Helen and John had been obsessed with each other for years, no matter how angry they were with one another. Even the fact that for all her spit and fire, Helen liked being put "in her place" wasn't all that shocking—more than a bit disappointing, but that's a different tale. It was the number of people who bought the bull-larky story about cryogenically preserving an embryo back in the 1880s. The Five had pushed the envelope of science beyond what others were capable of at the time, but that would have been beyond even them. So many of Helen's pet humans didn't even blink at the discrepancy, probably still reeling from the tilting being introduced to the _abnormal_ underworld wrought on their paradigm. The abnormals, particularly if they had any feral senses at all, could tell that Ashley was older than her perpetual youth would indicate. Despite Lamarck's theory, skills were not inherited even when certain things about an individual could be altered on the level that would allow them to be passed onto future offspring. Ashley did get her strength and speed from her parents, but the ability to put those skills to use in combat was the byproduct of _years_ of practice and experience.

In addition to Nikola's continued project of gathering information on the operations of the organization which he held responsible for the death of _her_ , James would occasionally draft him for help under the table and through indirect means of communication. It seemed that the world's best consulting detective was helping a certain displaced cryptologist with a major project which required a few of Nikola's specialized skill sets. Helen was much easier to deal with when she had a half-century on him. Still, it kept him from being bored. Nikola knew that he _dwelled_ on things when he was bored. It was not _brooding_ , regardless of what Helen said.

It was one such mission which had brought him to the middle of the Notting Hill Carnival. Thankfully, he lacked the traditional weakness of vampires from the myths which mocked the glory of his kind. The hot sun did little more than it would to anyone who had fair skin. Unfortunately, the hyper-senses were very real and the Carnival was stimulating every single one of them. As he worked the metaphorical math of stress-relief via public bloodbath versus the annoyance of listening to both James and at least one Helen if not _both_ scolding him, the wind unexpectedly shifted for a single burst. All thoughts of missions and obligations popped like a cork from a wine bottle. He knew that scent. He didn't know how or why or anything else—but _he knew that scent_.

As the lackey assigned to be his spotter began to sputter in his ear, Nikola walked right by the little store where James' contact was supposed to be meeting him. Notting Hill was packed with people—not just tourists, but also native Brits who wanted a taste of the Caribbean without ever leaving their little island. The spicy scent of jerked meat could not completely mask the longed-missed scent of ancient blood mixed with volatile ozone. He had not smelled it in ages, not in the combination that screamed what this mix did. The blood scent lingered around his fellow Five—even Ashley and the one time he had met Nigel's little Anna. That particular type of ozone would pop up in the oddest of spots, usually back alleys and abandoned buildings. Nikola had only encountered the _combination_ in one person—and no mission would ever be more important than chasing down the mere possibility of what that scent being carried on the wind could mean.

He could practically hear the lecture on selfishness now—but they didn't _know_ and even if they did, they couldn't _understand_. He had kept the secret of his White Dove close to his heart all these years. James might suspect—the man had buried a wife—but Helen, brilliant and bold Helen, for all her intelligence often missed the little details of people. Nigel had known, but only towards the end of it all. It was _her_ scent being carried on the wind, and Nikola couldn't ignore that.

"Mummy, I want to try _that_ ," a blond boy demanded, pointing eagerly at a fried confection of some sort. The caramelized smell of it irritated Nikola's nose just as much the boy's voice grated on his ears. If it weren't for the scent he was hunting being so concentrated around the pair, Nikola would have gladly moved around them, but it wafted around them like miasma. Neither the boy nor his mother looked like his white dove, despite the smell. He was about to resign himself to the ache in his heart struggling to get his attention when a child standing on the other side of the woman turned around to face him. The world might as well have stopped.

It was impossible. No matter the evidence right before his eyes, what Nikola was seeing was _impossible_. Those were _her_ eyes, dark emerald and felinely slim. That was _her_ nose, with its tiny upturn at the end. That was _her_ jaw, gently curved and begging to be touched. As if to emphasize the sheer impossibility of what Nikola was seeing, there were other even more familiar features. Those were _his_ cheekbones and the way the almost shorn hair stuck up at odd angles was the same way that _his_ did if he cut it too short. The color, though, that black that shone red around the edges, that was not from _him_. In all the world, Nikola had only seen it on one other person. The boy looked back at him with an expression broadcasting the same disbelief that had Nikola reeling and barely noticing as the blonde and her son moved away but the scent didn't.

"Boy," snapped the blonde from over ten feet away. The boy's open expression shuttered closed even as he turned away from Nikola to trot after the woman. Something fierce and wild snarled within Nikola as he realized that he was with _them_. It was _wrong_. He couldn't go with _them_. Nikola reached out to grab the boy's shoulder. The frame felt too thin in his hand, extraordinarily fragile, even more than a normal human's would. The internal snarling grew more intense.

"I have to go," the boy whispered and Nikola reveled in the tones that echoed those of his Dove. The Carnival's maelstrom of stimuli was fading as it seemed that every one of Nikola's senses focused on the impossible being standing still under his grasp. It echoed how _she_ had taken up his attention all those years ago. The boy gave a little shudder, a barely perceptible motion that was more a ripple than a shake. "Please, just let me—"

"Boy," the woman demanded and Nikola could tell that she was closer. Instincts he didn't even know he had forced him to yank the boy to the other side of him, so that Nikola was between _his_ boy and the woman who still hadn't used a name for the child. Rage had his electrical powers snapping beneath the surface of his skin and as he spoke, he had to mind his tongue or risk cutting it on his extended fangs. By the way that the woman flinched when he met her gaze, Nikola suspected the state of his eyes. It had been decades since he had felt so close to being completely out of control, since his features had slipped so badly. "Look, I don't know what you want with the boy," the woman declared with false bravado, "but if you take him, they will just bring him back and take their annoyance for needing to out on you."

"Who are 'they'?" Nikola queried, soft and dangerously. The woman had to swallow several times before answering. Smug pleasure at that difficulty burned through him, a savage fire that felt so much like bloodlust that it made his head swim. _'Be afraid, little human,'_ he taunted. _'Be very, very afraid.'_

"You know who!" she shrilly whispered. The fear made her voice reedy as well and Nikola flashed her a lopsided grin. It was _her_ turn to shudder at the glimpse of fang in that grin.

"The people in the robes," the boy supplied from behind him. Nikola felt something inside him twist in a sickening combination of terror and rage. There was a subsect of the Triple Crowns who still wore robes and it took special adaptations for his bugs to survive around them. The Cabal were bad enough, but that sect put even _Druitt_ to shame with their sadism.

The sheer need to take the boy and disappear hit Nikola like a punch to the gut. It was more than a bit disconcerting, this sudden drive to protect the child, no matter the cost. Nikola was _not_ prone to bouts of selflessness. In fact, he had it on pretty good authority ( _both_ Helens, even the older version) that he cared for no one besides himself. _'Ah, but that's not quite true, is it?'_ some part of him countered, bringing forth teasing memories of his long ago taste of paradise and the woman who thought of him as a gift and whispered seductive demands into his ears. Nikola didn't know _how_ the boy was _his_ —that should be impossible, at least, it was impossible with a combination with _her_ as well—but that mattered less than the instinct which screamed that he _was_. If there was one thing which Nikola knew well, it was the _impossible_. After all, it was what he _did_. The memory of her laughter settled the tension within him just enough to deal with what needed to be done.

"I want the boy," Nikola stated as calmly as possible. Despite the growing threat of his arm cramping from the awkward angle it was in to assure that it didn't leave the boy when Nikola had shoved him behind himself, Nikola was glad to that he had kept that grip upon the boy. If he hadn't, he would not have felt the sharp jerk followed by _impossible_ stillness that the boy exhibited at Nikola's words. Two hands touched his back and spasmed twice before fisting the slight excess of fabric there. The senses which seemed to have centered on the boy told Nikola that he was holding his breath. "He's coming with me."

"I told you that they will just bring him _back_ ," she bit out waspily. "They _always_ do. You won't keep him long and you can't kill him. So there's no point in taking him."

"I'll be the judge of that," he returned in cold tones. The implication of her words, with their slight emphasis on _can't_ over _kill_ , made him want to bathe in someone's blood for daring whatever they did which lead to the discovery of that _inability_. His math from earlier seemed a lot less metaphorical than it had a quarter of an hour ago. If the boy's safety, at least for now, did not hinge on the continued secrecy surrounding the existence of abnormals, even a guarantee of James' disappointment and a double dose of Helen's fury would not be enough to save the pitiful excuse for a human before him. He didn't even know the boy's name, but the drive to keep him safe was already knitting itself to Nikola's very core. It _would not_ be denied.

"Fine," she spat, "keep him for as long as you can. Let the fallout be on your head. Don't say I didn't warn you." The woman spun on her toes and stormed off, pushing her whiny whale of a son before her. Before the crowd could completely swallow the pair, Nikola heard _her son_ demanding to know why they were leaving the _freak_ behind. Fresh rage forced him to take a step forward, only to be hampered by a pull to the back of his shirt. The boy still hadn't let him go. The reminder of him cleared just enough of the rage for Nikola to suppress it beneath his reason once more.

"A thoroughly disagreeable harpy," Nikola commented. The description startled a sharp bark of laughter out of the boy who followed it with hard and desperate breaths. Nikola was more careful when he went to move this time, giving ample time for the boy to register that he was intending to turn around, not leave. Equally carefully, Nikola then shifted them into a nearby alley, so that they were out of the foot traffic of the Carnival. Once there, he took his time assessing what he could of the boy now staring at him with shining eyes filled with hopeful disbelief and bitter resignation.

"She's right, you know," the boy whispered. "No one who takes me gets to keep me long before _they_ come to take me back to there." Nikola couldn't stop himself from curling a hand against the boy's jaw. When the boy closed his eyes and tilted into the touch, he vowed to never again even try. Barely stirring his palm, Nikola used his fingertips to rub the dip behind the hinge of the boy's jaw, making him give another of those full body shudders.

"And what of not being able to kill you?"

"I'm a freak," he replied in a whisper so low that if Nikola hadn't had the enhanced hearing of his kind, he would have missed it. The boy blinked open his eyes to search his face and Nikola wondered what he was seeing. As if to answer the unspoken question, the child stretched a hand halfway to Nikola's face before yanking it back to fist it over his heart. That aborted touch hurt far more than it should have. "Your eyes—they're like _mine_. But that's _impossible_."

"I'm Nikola Tesla," he answered, abandoning the boringly normal name he was supposed to be using without a single thought. "I always do the impossible."

"I think I like that," the boy said with a grin just as crooked as the one Nikola used to rile Helen and James up. "I'm Harry Potter, freak extraordinaire."

"No," Nikola countered. He brought his other hand up to cup Harry's other jaw and tilt his face upwards again from the dip into which it had dropped. The boy moved easily, meeting Nikola's gaze with fearful determination. The rage was still there, and the bloodlust was hot and intense enough that Nikola considered going back on Helen's little medication to deaden the need to dismantle the woman who had been with _his_ Harry because this had to be from her. "You're not a freak, Harry, never a freak. You're like me—and I don't know _how_ yet, but you're like _her_ , and she was perfect, so you know what that means, don't you?"

"That I'm a colossal disappointment to a vaguely referenced woman who may not even exist?"

"Oh, _miš_ ," Nikola breathed, the Serbian endearment falling from his lips like a forgotten sigh. "Just by existing you have already exceeded my expectations." He rubbed his thumbs over Harry's cheekbones, despite there not being any tears. "I can already tell how smart you are, but I'll give you the answer any way. It means that you are just as perfect as she was."

"Nobody's perfect, least of all me," Harry countered, his eyes sliding shut again as he leaned into Nikola's touch. His tone was broken, the syllables splintered and sharp like glass. Nikola didn't resist the instinct that had him gliding one of his hands into the boy's hair and using the grip to pull him in for a hug. He was beginning to question where they were coming from, however. Nikola was not normally this touchy-feely even with people he did know and the only person he had ever felt so possessive of was _her_ , for the brief period that he had her. Harry's next words were mumbled against his chest, slow at first and then tumbling over each other like water over rocks. " _She_ used to call me that—I don't think she's the same person who you are referencing, but she _was_ perfect and _brilliant_ and then she was just _gone_ and I was with _them_. They always hated me but for _years_ , I thought—then the people in the robes started showing up, and it was _fine_ at first, but then…"

"That's over now," Nikola vowed at the same time that another man stepped into their alley. The growl was as unplanned as it was heartfelt. Nikola pushed Harry behind him even as he turned to fully face the threat. He registered Harry's hands gripping his shirt again as the man at the mouth of the alley raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender. James' sharp eyes were glued to Nikola's face.

"Breathe through it, Nikola," James commanded, not even attempting to move from his place at the mouth of the alley. "We both do not want to explain to Helen why we needed to tranq you when you're supposed to be medicated to the point of never needing it...and I'm fairly certain you wouldn't want the boy to see that." Nikola felt the hands on his back flinch before Harry shifted, probably to look around him at James. A century of control didn't stop James' sharp intake of breath being audible; it only allowed the Sanctuary Head to recover quickly from the shock of seeing exactly what Nikola had earlier, even without even as much context as Nikola had. "I _see_. Well, that does change some things, doesn't it?"

"Who are you?"

"A _friend_ ," James answered Harry, "and he's already remembering that little fact, now that the surprise is fading. Are _you_ alright? While tranq'ing you will probably not help _him_ , but it can be arranged, if you need it." Nikola shoved ruthlessly at the protective rage which threatened to overwhelm him again at the suggestion of anyone shooting his boy, regardless of it being a logical suggestion to avoid letting a feral _Vampirius sanguine_ loose in London. Harry's hands released their grip and smoothed the bunched fabric.

"I'd rather not be made to sleep, if it's all the same to you," Harry commented as he moved from behind Nikola. A part of him screamed that Harry was not safe so exposed, but Nikola managed to stop himself from stepping between the two. "Bad things happen when people force me to sleep."

"James, I need to get Harry off the streets," Nikola interrupted the silence which fell as the two genii tried to determine exactly what could constitute _bad things_ when compared to the bloodbath of a rampaging vampire. "There may be company coming soon that will need to be dealt with outside of Normal eyes."

"I will need to insist on the Sanctuary, you know," James said as if it was just a reminder of a previously made plan instead of something completely new. The urge to refuse died on Nikola's lips as logic won against the damned instincts attempting to control him. Every Sanctuary was equipped with more than enough security that they would most likely be _safer_ and as the London Sanctuary was closer than any of his bolt-holes, it had the _immediacy_ to make up for any lack of stealth. Nikola huffed but gestured his agreement. As James spoke into his ear piece to arrange for their transportation, Nikola turned to _his_ boy just in time to find Harry plastering himself to his front.

"I know that this isn't going to last," Harry whispered against Nikola's stomach. Nikola could feel the tremors running through the little body and hear the slight hitch in his breath. "But thank you for at least trying. That is more than anyone else has ever done before."

"Oh, _miš_ ," Nikola sighed, pulling Harry even closer, "even if they take you, I will never stop hunting for you now that I know you exist. You are _mine_ and I don't like when people take what is _mine_. You're stuck with me, kiddo."

"I can think of worse people to be stuck with," Harry quipped. He leaned back to look Nikola in the eye, and the vampire was struck again by the boy's resemblance to _her_ , especially with that particular expression on his face—all shocked wonder and teasing affection. "Even if you _are_ impossible."


	3. Glimmer

**Warning:** Some of the thoughts in Harry's head are a bit disturbing. This is also true of some of the things which mentioned as happening, even if details of what _exactly_ happened aren't given.

 **Author's Note(s):** Between this chapter and the newest side story for the continuity this crossover is a part of, there's enough clues for people to figure this out, but I'm going to flat out say it now: Albus Dumbledore is not going to be a good guy in this story. …Not even in the hands off but the ends justify the means way he is in _Of Thieves & Beggars_. It will be far from the highly manipulative but still in the neighborhood of decency which he is in the canon or the similar but coldly opportunistic and biased way he is in _Through Feline Eyes_. So, evil!Dumbledore ahoy!

҉ As an experiment, I would like to offer a commissioned oneshot to the reviewer/commenter who correctly guesses the particular element which I am referring to which moves Dumbledore from manipulative to evil. The only eliminating hints I will give here is that it is something which has _not_ been explicitly stated such as the mind wipes (which have been both mentioned and demonstrated) and you will need information given in _Melltith_. (Full name: _Echoes of Forgotten Hope, Part 01: Melltith_ ). First person to correctly guess, on either FFN or AO3, wins.

-= LP =-

Legacies of Blood

Part 03: Glimmer

-= LP =-

"I don't care what consequence it brings

I have been a fool for lesser things. …

I think you ought to know that I intend to hold you for the longest time."

– Billy Joel, _The Longest Time_

-= LP =-

Harry watched the adults carefully from his perch atop the examination table. As a rule, he generally didn't trust adults. Either they were like the Dursleys with their _justifications_ and _restrictions_ ; they were like the staff at his school, blind and stupid; or they were like the people in robes, dismissive at best and murderously violent at their worst. All in all, Harry Potter could do without adults in his life. He supposed that Nikola wasn't too bad, even if there was a significant probability that the man was a nutter who only _thought_ he was the Nikola Tesla. He was _interesting_ at the very least, and just being in his presence made something inside Harry relax his guard in a way had been impossible since his first day of school and the first appearance of the people in robes. At the same time, Harry was having trouble _not_ tracking him as he moved around the small medical lab while the other two adults took turns asking generic health exam questions of Harry.

Harry knew that the robe-wearers could come at any time, and regardless of what Nikola had promised back in that Nottingham alley, Harry had seen how easily they could make people forget things or think other things were the truth. The man was obviously related to him in some way. Harry saw a lot of his personal features, and some from the vague memories he had of his mother, in Nikola's face and bearing. Then there were the shared freaky features, at least the teeth that popped out occasionally and the complete darkening of the eyes, as that was all Harry had directly witnessed so far. He would lay odds that the man had the whole set, including the really fast healing—which might actually lend credence to the idea that Nikola was _not_ a nutter after all, now that Harry had a chance to think about it. That made the idea of him _owning_ the future almost—

Harry snapped his teeth at the woman who had just pulled a hair out of his head while he had been focused on Nikola and stupidly not paying attention to the other two. She managed to yank her hand out of range fast enough that all she gained was a light graze rather than the full bite he had been attempting, but it cost her the ill-gotten hair. Harry raised his top lip, in a mixture of snarl and sneer, both at her rudeness and his _stupidity_. She looked deeply unsettled, a fact which pleased Harry far more than it probably should. Her hand flew to her hip before jerking away again. Harry recognized the gesture for what it had to be. Considering that handguns had been illegal in England for well over half a century, that had to be a bit of idiocy she had picked up from the Yanks. Before either of them could react any further, Nikola was between them, simultaneously pushing her further away while doing his own verification of Harry's welfare.

Unbidden, Harry grinned up at the concerned expression on the man's face. It was nice, the feeling that someone cared about _him_ enough to go against people who had to otherwise be considered friends. It was even better that Nikola seemed to be having similar demands running rampant through him, despite being so much older than Harry. Nine was nothing compared to a hundred and thirty-three, and if Harry had always been like this, it stood to reason that Nikola had as well, so Nikola having the same obsessive need to track Harry's movements that Harry had for Nikola was comforting as well as telling about their mutual alone-ness. Harry wanted to ask so many questions—about Nikola, about the Sanctuary, about the woman he kept referencing but never naming, about what they _were_ because they had to be something different—but Harry knew first hand that adults didn't like being asked questions, especially by kids. The next-to-last thing Harry wanted to do was annoy Nikola, especially after the breakdown in the alley earlier. He knew that his time with the man was limited. He wasn't going to do anything that would drive him away earlier than he would be taken. When Nikola carded a hand through Harry's curls to rub the former home of the stolen hair, Harry couldn't help but lean into it. Touches that didn't hurt were nice, too.

"Helen," James scolded, "I told you that you have to get his attention first. The last thing we need is for either of them to feel threatened. You _know this_ as you have seen Nikola lose control in the past. Imagine how much worse that would have been if he had been both feral and protecting a child?"

"I'm still not convinced that the boy is his son," Helen countered. She crossed her arms and her face had the same sucking-lemons expression that Aunt Petunia wore when Harry was caught doing something she qualified as _freakish_ , even if it was something relatively normal like when the headmistress of the school wanted to have him skip grades. She was probably an alright person, most of the time, but she reminded Harry of the twinkling idiot in charge of the less violent robe-wearers, always confident that she knew best for everyone, no matter how little she _knew_ about them. That her first actions upon the group's arrival had been to beret Nikola about not picking up something that had already been picked up by the time that James had found them in the alley did not help endear the woman to Harry.

"That's because I'm _not_ ," Harry snapped. "Obviously. Just look at us. There are key differences in our appearances which probably wouldn't be there without some distance between us. Less obvious to _you_ , would be the resemblance he has to _my mother_ but with similar key differences. I can even go one step further and state that he even more closely resembles my _grandmother_. Given the decaying strength of the familial resemblance in combination with the alleged death date given in the history books for Nikola Tesla, I would conclude that he is my great-grandfather, which in turn, would make me _not_ his son. Now, if I'm _nine_ and can figure that much out, what does that say about _you_? Hmm, _doctor_?"

"Harry," Nikola said flatly. Harry fought back a flinch, but couldn't repress the urge to drop his glare to the region of his knees. Hadn't he just been thinking about not wanting to annoy Nikola? And what was the first thing he did? If there was anything that adults hated more than questions from kids, it was kids getting lippy. Harry _knew this_ , and he still gave into his annoyance. To make the situation even worse, he had _showboated_ his freakish intelligence. Hoping to forestall Nikola telling him to leave, Harry murmured an apology without daring to raise his head to look at anyone. He could feel his eyes prickling, but it had been years since he had last cried and he wasn't going to now. Things were bad enough without adding _sniveling_ to the list. Nikola clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval and this time, Harry couldn't stop the flinch.

Nikola's fingers tightened around the strands of Harry's hair before he used the grip to pull Harry against him. The change in their relative heights due to Harry sitting on the exam table meant that this pressed his nose into the folds of Nikola's collar instead of the man's stomach again. The concentrated scent there was as much a comfort as the embrace. There was an underlying note to it which reminded Harry painfully of the woman who had been the last person to hold him just for comfort. When he lost Nikola, it would be like losing Mummy all over again, and the knowledge of that _hurt_.

Things were always worse after one of his _kidnappings_ , at least for a little while, but he was older now than he was when Mummy died; he understood _loss_ now. Feeling that while enduring whatever punishment Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon could think up would _suck_. Harry wanted to pull Nikola closer, to hold onto him like he had in the alley, but wouldn't that just make the inevitable worse? The indecision seemed to paralyze him, leaving him leaning against Nikola, letting the man take his weight, unable to deny himself the feel of being held and just as unable to relax fully into the embrace.

"Helen, don't you think you should check on Ashley? I can finish Harry's examination," James whispered, jerking Harry from his thoughts. Harry went to pull away from Nikola, but the man refused to let him. Helen huffed but a moment later, he heard the door sliding open and then shut. "Nikola, I need to draw blood. We'll need to know the extent of the damage, and as soon as possible, if there's going to be any hope of mitigating the starvation in time."

"They didn't—"

"Oh, don't even try to deny it, Harry," James interrupted. Harry pressed closer against Nikola who seemed to just as reluctant to let him go. Harry didn't know how the other man knew about the Dursleys' food restrictions or what else the man knew, but he didn't like it. The Twinkler was especially thorough removing the memories of people who knew or suspected what his life was like with the Dursleys. While Harry would gladly bite Helen a dozen times over because the woman would be indignantly annoyed by it which pleased Harry, James seemed like someone that Harry could definitely grow to enjoy being around. Plus, Nikola trusted him implicitly, even more than he did Helen who he flirted with despite clearly keeping secrets from her—secrets which James must know as well. Harry didn't want to watch as the stupid twinkler destroyed him like he had the first counselor at Harry's school, stealing the knowledge of his trade at the same time as any memories of Harry. "As you said to Helen, it's obvious now that I have a chronological age. While certain things do not line up—clearly you seem to have only limited cognitive difficulties and your concentration appears intact enough that you are able to almost hyperfocus at times, though that might be an effect of first exposure to either another vampire or another vampire who's related to you as Nikola appears to be having a similar display—you said you were _nine_ which is not bore out by your height and weight. You're exactly four foot, which is more than an inch below the average height of a seven-year-old, and while the atrociously baggy clothing doesn't help, I would place your weight in the close neighborhood of three stone, which is a healthy weight if you were _five_. Strictly speaking, I'm rather surprised that you are even alive. I suspect you must have Nikola's ability to heal yourself. Lord knows I've watched the man walk away from things which should have rightfully killed him and a few times, I would wager that he actually did die. The bastard won't confirm it, though."

"Watching you wonder is a source of endless amusement," Nikola declared loftily. The older _vampire_ let Harry pull back this time. Harry searched his face knowing that Nikola was watching him just as intensely. After a moment, Nikola drew a line down the side of Harry's face from forehead to jaw before dragging his thumb of the cheekbone of the same side. "I told you that you were stuck with me, _miš_. Did you think a little thing like dying would be enough to get rid of me? I'm Nikola Tesla, remember?"

"You do the impossible," Harry whispered, awe coloring his tone. The tiny spark of hope that had been born when Nikola had faced down Aunt Petunia refused to be smothered any more as he realized that Nikola might be just as impervious to the wand-wavers' mind-wiping ability as Harry himself. Vampires were also supposed to be really strong and fast—Harry knew that even the violent robe-wearers were afraid of them. Nikola tapped him on the nose with an extra toothy grin before turning towards the good doctor.

"Take what you need, James, but keep Helen from giving him any of medication." Harry couldn't see Nikola's face, but from James' expression, he could imagine that they were having another of those conversations they kept having where one of them would drop a _non sequitur_ which served as a reminder of an older conversation so the other would read a more exact reference in their expression. This was the second time Helen and medication had been referenced together and it made Harry want to bite her for real, if only for Nikola's sake—because she obviously made a medication that she expected Nikola to be taking a lot of and Nikola clearly wasn't taking it which meant it must be _horrible_ as Nikola was smart enough to not refuse something that _helped_ him.

"When did you stop taking it?"

"I've kept my promise."

"That wasn't my question."

"Boxing Day, 1942," Nikola answered before turning so that he could see Harry's face again. "A week after I met _her_." A quick glance at James' face told Harry that he had no more a clue who _she_ was than Harry did and like lightning flashing, Harry also realized that he knew more about _her_ with just a couple of hours in Nikola's company than the man who appeared to be his best friend. His eyes widened.

"And she was _perfect_ ," Harry breathed in wonder, earning another tap to the nose. He stared into Nikola's eyes and his mind began to spin with the new context for what had been in front of him since the moment he had first seen Nikola. While those eyes had been blackened with anger, Harry hadn't thought of the possible differences in their eyes, because the black was familiar enough that it couldn't be denied, but now he could _see_ how it was a key. He had been as stupid as he had accused Helen of being just moments ago. "Oh, my god, our _eyes_ —I don't have your eyes, but it's a consistent feature. Mummy had them and so did Marigold in the pictures. You don't—they're too blue and the wrong shape and the pattern is different."

"Didn't I say you were like her? Of course, my own contribution cannot be denied—"

"I hate to interrupt what I am sure will be an absolutely brilliant example of your typical brand of narcissism, but I would like to take the necessary samples from Harry and then you need to take him to the kitchen to get something decent into him. _We_ will continue our conversation later and you can regale Harry with the superiority of the Tesla legacy over whatever disaster Emmy is calling food today."

"Emmy's here? Did she bring the midget?" Nikola asked even as he moved aside enough for James to begin the work of drawing blood from Harry's arm. Nikola seemed to be waiting for James to do something suspicious even while he was breathing in a way that was too deep to be anything but deliberate. Being able to anticipate the slight sting of the needle allowed Harry to suppress the need to snap his teeth at James, but he still must have reacted in some way because Nikola growled at James before covering his eyes with his right hand. "This is getting embarrassing."

"Over-reactions to potential threats of one's young is a well-documented phenomenon in Abnormals which have the urge to form packs. I'm not surprised to see vampires displaying it." James smirked as he switched vials. Nikola dropped his hand to glare at his friend. "Even if they were the most enlightened species in the world and responsible for the Golden Age of civilization."

"I have the sudden urge to tell Hermione about that time at Oxford when Helen wore that red dress—"

"Oh, feel free to share stories of _our_ youthful highjinks," James offered as he switched vials again. Nikola frowned at the new vial. A film seemed to settle over Harry's vision, making things increasingly blurry. He was torn between the desire to hide his face in Nikola's collar again and not wanting to upset anyone; James had said he needed the blood and Nikola had said it was okay. It should be over soon, and James had mentioned feeding him—and had called it _something decent_ which probably meant more substantial than the toast he had gotten for breakfast before Aunt Petunia had dragged him along on the trip to the Carnival. James sounded like he was talking from far away despite being right next to him. "I would love to watch you explain _why_ you told a nine-year-old that _particular_ tale to Harry and Daniel. Emmy probably wouldn't care overly much and set about answering all those delightfully detailed questions that precocious genii are prone to asking, but you know how _protective_ those influenced by the Source Blood can be and do I need to remind you that Daniel was RAMC before he retired to his _dentistry_ office?"

" _Touché_ , old man," Nikola acknowledged as James began to fill a fourth vial. His frown became a full scowl. Harry blinked at the expression. Was there something that he should be worried about? "That had better be the last one."

Harry was glad Nikola said something because his head was getting fuzzy like it did before he lost consciousness and that was currently the third thing on Harry's not-to-do list. His control over his freakishness always broke when he fell unconscious suddenly. Not only did that always draw Twinkler's group of idiots, it usually ended up destroying a lot of things and people. He may not _like_ Helen, but he didn't want her hurt, like that at least, and he _did_ like James, and Nikola was just _brilliant_. He needed to protect Nikola.

"I think there's steak in the fridge," James said. Harry blinked as his forehead furrowed. Did he miss something? James returned the frown as he pressed a folded wad of gauze to the spot the needle had been in Harry's arm just a moment previously. The frown deepened when he had to replace to gauze as the blood seeped through the first pad. This time he raised Harry's hand above his head and while sluggish due to the blood that had been taken, Harry's healing factor kicked in to seal the tiny wound. Blood had still slid down his arm to stain his shirt. Aunt Petunia won't like that.

While food did sound good, especially if Harry could have some of the mentioned steak, the energy that eating would take seemed beyond Harry at the moment. His eyes slid closed without his consent and when he couldn't open them again, he panicked, throwing out an arm blindly for Nikola. Harry knew that he shouldn't be clinging to the man, but the cotton filling his head made the reason why fuzzy and distant. Harry just didn't have the brainpower to remember the reason _and_ fight off the urge to sleep that was threatening to pull him under, and the fuzziness left the feeling that Nikola's presence meant _safety_ as the only clear thought. He felt himself being pulled against something hard before the darkness managed to bury him. His last thought was gratefulness that Nikola's scent filled his nose instead of the more common smell of cleaning products.

-= LP =-

 **Author's Note(s):** Before anyone complains about Helen's portrayal, please remember that 1) Harry is a kid, and kids in general aren't reasonable creatures; 2) Harry is just as over-protective of Nikola as Nikola is of him; 3) the "I know best—rush a plan into action" thing is a canon personality issue for Helen that she gets called out on multiple times; and finally, 4) this is the younger Helen who hasn't had time to reflect and grow. She's not going to become anything near a villain nor do I plan on her being viewed as incompetent as the story progresses. She just made a horrible first impression on the narrating character for the chapter.


End file.
